No more than five hours of sleep

A not-so-tiny weight rests bone-hard and perpendicular on the thigh pillow; his breaths, though even measured, finally enter into silent mode.

The ensuing quiet is strangely cold for the first day of June, but three hundred and twenty two minutes later, Tweety Bird begins singing an operatic though barely recognizable Looney Tune much earlier than Sylvester, still groggy from the night before, expects.

Where did that song come from?

Out of the colder blue, smoother gams resuscitate another jingle, short shorts which awaken from sweet dreams nicely. So nice, in fact, that he unknowingly hums along

Her lovely Matisse-drawn curves.